


When You Get a Second Chance, You Don't Ask Questions

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Confessions, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Marking, Post Reichenbach, Resolved Sexual Tension, Reunions, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mycroft have had a working, no strings attached, sex-only relationship for the last several months. That is, until Sherlock shows up eighteen months after his suicide, very much alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Get a Second Chance, You Don't Ask Questions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shrillfangirlacreamimg](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shrillfangirlacreamimg).



> Fofi wanted more Myjohnlock, but I really didn't want to write that, so this is the next best thing (I hope).
> 
> SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER TO GET OUT.
> 
> This isn't my usual headcanon or my usual Sherlock, but, as always, John ended up sounding kind of whorish. I don't understand why this always happens.
> 
>  **NB:** This is primarily Johnlock, not Johncroft.

John caught sight of the purpling red mark on his shoulder as he washed his hands—right at the base of his neck. He brushed his fingertips over the teeth marks; he’d have to make sure and wear collared shirts for a while. Good thing it was the middle of December.

“John?”

He shut off the tap and walked back into the bedroom.

“Alright?” Mycroft said as John slid under the covers.

John nodded. “Admiring your handiwork.”

Mycroft’s touch ghosted over John’s neck before he lowered his hand to his hip and pulled him close. “I believe I have some of your handiwork on my back.”

“Probably should to trim my nails before next time,” John chuckled.

Mycroft gave a deep, noncommittal hum in response.

John looked steadily at him until the other man met his gaze.

“Something the matter?”

“You tell me.” John propped himself up; the covers and Mycroft’s hand slipped off of him. “Why does it feel like this was—I don’t know—a farewell shag?”

Mycroft rolled onto his back with hardly a twinge and sighed. It was a sigh John was familiar with, one he had grown used to when Sherlock was still alive, and one that the older Holmes brother shared. It said, _I’m tired of your sentiment_.

In this bed, it was Mycroft’s way of telling John he was showing too much attachment.

So John rolled his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He gathered up his clothes, dressing with neither haste nor lethargy. At the bedroom door he said a brief goodnight, to which Mycroft gave an absentminded, wordless reply.

 

It seemed fortuitous that John hadn’t stayed at Mycroft’s for more than one round. He was called in first thing in the morning to the surgery, which had lost one of the other doctors to the flu and had an influx of patients for the same reason.

Between the second he walked in the door and his lunch break, John didn’t have a moment to himself. When he finally managed a little peace and quiet, seated in front of a sandwich one of the nurses had brought him, he received a text.

_5PM Office MH_

John blinked at the screen. It wouldn’t have been the first time they’d shagged in Mycroft’s office, but those times had never been planned in advanced. Well, perhaps some of them had been, but not with John knowing ahead of time.

His gaze travelled to the stack of files on his desk. _Might be late._

_Don’t be. MH_

John rolled his eyes and silenced his mobile. He had a good twenty minutes to eat his sandwich and breathe before he had to go back to sniffles and paranoid mothers; he wasn’t about to spend it in a text debate with Mycroft.

By chance—or not, John could never be sure with Mycroft—he was released from the rest of his paperwork half past four. Thank god there was no bloody car waiting for him. He’d drawn that line months ago, once he and Mycroft had agreed on what it was exactly they were doing.

He splurged on a cab for time’s sake. He’d gotten so used to travelling on the tube these days, the space and silence of the vehicle was as luxurious as it was uncomfortable. He focused on what was outside the windows—the people, the buildings, the other cars—the life of London, so loud and so quiet all at once. So much under the surface, so much that went unnoticed.

John shut his eyes and took a slow, steadying breath. He kept his eyes closed until they pulled up to Whitehall.

Mycroft was at the window, standing in a manner John had once attributed to Sherlock alone. But the last few months had shown him just how alike the brothers had been. Not that Mycroft was anything like a replacement. They had made that clear, too.

There was an empty brandy glass in his hand, though he held it as if it still contained a drink.

“I’m here,” John said when Mycroft didn’t acknowledge his entrance.

“Have a seat, John.” Mycroft walked to his desk and set down the glass.

John obliged, feeling like he had the first time he sat in this office. That was a long time ago. Over two and a half years, not long before the night at the pool.

Mycroft was still standing in front of his desk with his back to John, hands braced on the edge.

“If something’s come up—”

“Sherlock’s alive.”

“What?”

Mycroft turned around, perfectly composed. Except for the slight flush from the brandy, hardly noticeable in the poorly lit office. “He contacted me three days ago from France. Montpellier.”

John gaped. He registered in the back of his head that he was standing again. “Fra- Three days?”

“He asked me to wait until he was back in London to tell you.”

“No.” John shook his head. “No. I saw him. Mycroft, I saw him. If this is some twisted joke—”

“It’s no joke, John. He’s at Baker Street right now, no doubt playing that bloody violin of his.”

John took a deep breath, eyes screwed shut and hands clenched at his sides. “No. He was dead. He was on the pavement d- We buried him, Mycroft.”

“Apparently we didn’t.”

John’s eyes shot open. He still couldn’t read Mycroft, not even after months of fucking him. But, then again, it really was just fucking. They weren’t flatmates or friends. There was nothing between them but latex and bed sheets and sweat. Things John had never wanted with another man until it was too late to have them with the one he wanted. “He’s- How?”

“He refuses to tell me,” Mycroft said, as if nothing had happened, as if Sherlock hadn’t died, as if their childish feud had just picked up where it had left off. “I have one or two theories. I suspect Miss Hooper is involved.”

“Molly?”

“Regardless of how he managed to fool us—” there was a distinct undertone of _me_ there “—he is alive.”

John fell back into the chair. “How?” He glared up at Mycroft. “Why?”

“He was tracking down the rest of Moriarty’s web, apparently.” Mycroft gave a light shrug, as if this was nothing to him. Though, he probably dealt with this sort of thing more often than the average person. But this was his brother they were discussing. This was Sherlock. Sherlock, alive. “It does explain a few particular incidents- Well, never mind.”

John buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Sherlock was alive? He wasn’t sure if this was a nightmare or a dream come true. So much had happened in eighteen months since Bart’s. And a lot more hadn’t happened.

“He’s waiting for you,” Mycroft said. His voice was nearly soft.

John laughed. The sound was ugly. “He’s waiting for me?” He looked up at Mycroft. “Eighteen months, and he’s waiting for me?”

“John—”

“He couldn’t have told us?” _Me. He couldn’t have told me?_

“Ask him.”

John blinked. “Ask him what?”

“Why he couldn’t tell you.”

“You know, don’t you?” John glowered at him. “He told you.”

Mycroft nodded. “And you should hear it from him, not me.”

John stood and walked right up to Mycroft until their bodies were flush. “Why not hear it from you?” he whispered.

Mycroft put his hands on John’s shoulders and pushed him to army's length. “Because you deserve to hear it from him.”

John stepped back and did his best imitation of the Holmes sigh.

To his surprise—or maybe not so surprising—Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, well, he may be insufferable, but—”

“He’s still your baby brother.”

“He’s still Sherlock.”

 

_He’s still Sherlock. He’s alive. And he’s waiting in our flat. For me._

Those were the thoughts that kept John from going mad in the silence the entire cab ride to Baker Street. He all but chucked the fare at the cabbie.

There was no music coming from upstairs. Mrs. Hudson was at her sister’s, and it was all very quiet. It was a quiet John still wasn’t used to, even after eighteen months, but now it held something new, something promising, something hopeful.

He shut the door and took the stairs two at a time. The door was ajar, and John opened it fully with his palm on the wood.

Sherlock was in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingertips under his chin. He was even thinner than he used to be, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor to it.There was no scar on his head from his fall, no marks at all. He wore his old pyjamas and the blue dressing gown he had shot a hole in the sleeve of three months after John moved into 221B.

“I was beginning to wonder if Mycroft had forced you to fill out paperwork,” Sherlock said with an uncomfortable smile.

“You bastard,” John said, with none of the force the words deserved. “You complete, utter bastard.”

Sherlock stood and John crossed the room to him, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. John balled edges of the dressing gown into his fists, and the other man closed his mouth with a wince, as if he expected to be struck.

When John didn’t move, didn’t speak, Sherlock began slowly, “I wanted to tell you, but the work I had to do was delicate, and your life—”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock snapped his mouth closed.

“I don’t care.” John pressed his forehead into Sherlock’s chest. “I thought I would, I thought I was going to need one bloody amazing explanation for this, but I just don’t care.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered into John’s hair.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?”

John looked up. “I love you. I was too close-minded to admit it before. It shouldn’t have taken your death for me to—”

Sherlock silenced him with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

With a sinking feeling in his chest, John let go of the dressing gown and let his hands fall limp to his sides. “Just... thought you should know.” He swallowed and smiled. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“It’s certainly a relief.”

John grinned in earnest, but he was suddenly very aware of the lack of space between them and went over to sit in his chair. “So what now.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock resumed his old seat.

“You’re back from the dead, Sherlock. That’s going to cause a bit of a disruption.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. It was good to see that look again, that look that always made John roll his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure Mycroft can take care of the necessary details. I have just, after all, dismantled an international criminal web.”

“Yeah, I suppose he owes you for a while on this one, eh?”

“For a few years at least.”

John chuckled.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, sounding and looking as if he had just had one of his epiphanies.

“Hm?”

He looked at John a little wide-eyed. “You mean romantically.”

“What?”

“Just a moment ago, when you said you love me.”

John glanced away. “What did you think I meant?”

“Obviously not that.”

“It’s alright,” John said and shrugged.

“John—”

“No, really, it’s fine. Eighteen months, I just had to get it off my chest. It’s fine, though.”

“Look at me.” He didn’t say please, but his tone was entreating.

John obeyed. He didn’t want to have a conversation about sentiment and brain chemistry. He wasn’t in the mood. But when had he ever been able to really argue with Sherlock about these sorts of things? Besides, in the end, he was just happy—a severe understatement, really—to have his best friend back.

“The first night at Angelo’s—”

“I know, married to your work. I said it’s fine, Sherlock. It’s something I had to say, that’s all. We can forget it.”

“No, John.”

“No?”

“What I said that night was true—then. But if you don’t believe you’ve changed me, you are fooling yourself.”

John frowned. “What are you on about?”

“Of course I love you.”

“What?” John gawked rather unattractively.

“Romantically that is. Not as a friend. Well, as a friend as well, but—”

“You just said you love me?”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned. “I thought you’d be pleased to know that, considering the confession you yourself just made.”

“No. I mean, yes. But you just said you love me.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed. “Is it really necessary to keep restating—”

“You just said you love me, right after I said the same thing to you, so why are we still sitting here across from one another like we’re chatting about your latest case?”

“Oh.”

John smirked. “Yes, ‘oh.’”

They stood up in unison, which made John laugh. Sherlock smiled and walked up to him. He cupped John’s cheeks and tilted his face up, leaning down until their lips brushed together.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled himself into the kiss. Sherlock’s lips were dry and chapped, but warm. John wetted them with his tongue, memorising the taste. He wondered what they would taste like in the summer. He smiled at the thought, and the realisation that he would get to find out.

“John,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, sliding his hands to the nape of John's neck.

“Hm?” John leaned into the touch.

“Are we going to have sex?”

John opened his eyes and stared into Sherlock’s curious gaze. “Do you want to?”

“Yes, but not if it will make you uncomfortable.”

“Nothing wrong with a little discomfort.” John grinned and pressed his body against Sherlock’s. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Would you let me?”

John answered by initiating another kiss, a rough one, bruising Sherlock’s lips with teeth. “Yes,” he said, breathing hard, when they broke away. “But only you.”

Sherlock nodded, and then bit his lip. “I don’t have any—”

“I do.”

Sherlock’s brow quirked.

“I, uh, experimented a bit since you left.” Now would not be the time to bring up Mycroft, though John was sure it would come up sooner than later. As soon as the three of them were in the same room together. But he could worry about that another time.

Sherlock just nodded.

John frowned. “Have you ever had sex?”

“Yes. Not for some time, but yes.”

“With another man?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes. I know perfectly well how to properly prepare an anus for sexual intercourse.”

John laughed softly. “Didn’t delete it then?”

“Oddly enough, no.” Sherlock curled his fingers through John's hair. “To bed then?”

“Mm, yes. Probably best to use mine, though. Yours is full of boxes and dust.”

“I’ve been waiting years to get into your bed.” Sherlock grinned broadly. It was an unusual expression on him, but John liked it.

“Years, huh? Guess we should remedy that.” John brought Sherlock’s hands down and, twisting their fingers together, led the way upstairs.

Sherlock closed the door and pulled John’s waist back. He buried his face in the curve of his neck and inhaled. John closed his eyes and leaned back into him. 

“I’m sorry it’s taken this long,” Sherlock breathed onto his skin.

John twisted around in Sherlock’s arms and traced one of those incredible cheekbones with his thumb. “It’s not your fault.”

Sherlock’s long fingers enveloped John’s. He turned his hand and kissed the heel of the palm.

John combed his free hand through dark curls. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Sherlock nodded. He curled his thumb over John’s palm, tracing the edges and lines and calluses.

“What are you doing?” John chuckled and brushed away the curls over Sherlock’s brow, only to have them fall back in place.

“Building,” Sherlock murmured, gaze following the motion of his own thumb. “I’m building an entire wing in my mind palace for you. If it relates to you in any way, I will never delete it. And I want to start with this: every detail.”

John gently pulled his hand away. Sherlock looked up, and they held each other’s gaze for a moment. Then John stripped off his jumper and began flicking open his shirt buttons. It slid off his shoulders to the ground, and he pulled his vest off to join it and the jumper. He stopped when Sherlock frowned.

At first, John thought he was taken in by the knot of scar tissue, but Sherlock’s outstretched hand went to his neck instead. That’s when he remembered the teeth marks.

“There’s someone else,” Sherlock said, his voice suddenly cold and so very far away.

“No.” John gripped his hand. “No. Not like that, not like us. Fuck buddies, that’s all. It’s already over.”

“This isn’t more than a day old.”

“Stop,” John pleaded softly. “Stop deducing. Look at my face.” Sherlock obliged, obviously reluctant and uncertain. John pressed Sherlock’s hand over the mark. “Bad timing, that’s all. I promise, it was nothing more than the occasional shag. No love lost, not in the slightest.”

There was a moment of silence that made John’s heart race and his adrenaline pump. At last, Sherlock nodded and pulled his hand away. He moved it to the scar, focusing on that instead, and John continued to undress.

John thought he might be anxious and self-conscious with those silver eyes on every centimeter of his bare skin, but instead he felt comforted. They were warm. Deducing, yes, obviously taking in every detail, but not with the cold calculation of the world’s only consulting detective.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered over John’s body. His breathing grew shallow and his pupils dilated. He looked overwhelmed.

“Take your time,” John whispered.

He did. At first, he only looked, but slowly he began grazing his fingertips across John’s arms, chest, hips. The touch made John’s skin pimple, but he surprised himself with how at ease he was. When there was a break in Sherlock’s touches, John backed up to the bed and scooted back onto it. Sherlock shed his dressing robe and pyjamas and clambered onto the bed facing him.

John let his own gaze wander as Sherlock continued adding to his personal catalogue of John’s body. Initially, John was taken in by the obvious, but then his doctor’s eyes began picking up other details, like his visible ribs and pasty complexion. Whatever Sherlock had been doing for the past eighteen months, he had taken poorer care of himself than usual. Without thinking, John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock’s arms, but there were no track marks. So, just not eating and sleeping well enough. Working himself half to death probably.

His attention snapped back to the moment when Sherlock finally put his fingertips to his prick. His entire body flushed and he looked up at Sherlock with a clownish smile. “Find something you like?”

Sherlock nodded and leaned forward. John met him halfway, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him in. As their mouths opened and their tongues met, John leaned back onto the bed, bringing Sherlock with him. The other man’s weight, that lanky body against his short bulk, it all felt so right, so good. He rotated his hips up into Sherlock’s, and received a moan as a reward.

John tilted his face up, breaking the kiss, and said in a quiet, steady voice, “Take me, Sherlock. I want you to take me.”

Sherlock nodded. He kissed John once more, rubbing his palms down his chest to his hips. Then, “Where might I find your lubricant and condoms?”

John smirked. “Like you haven’t figured that out.”

“I was trying to be polite,” Sherlock said even as he opened the middle drawer of John’s bedside table.

“Polite?” John traced the curve of Sherlock’s waist and hip with his hand, his eyes drifting further to the hardening cock. “You’re about to fuck me. You really don’t need to practice your social skills right now.”

Sherlock closed the drawer and set the condom on the nightstand. “You may find said social skills more lacking these days.”

“You mean like you trying to have this conversation while I’m laying bare-arse naked and half hard under you?”

Sherlock glanced down. “You’re not even half hard.”

“I would be if you’d stop talking and focus.”

But, instead, Sherlock sat up on his knees and looked from his own swelling cock to John’s still fairly limp one. “Are you not aroused?”

John looked at him, completely incredulous. “What? Of course I am. Sherlock, I’m forty and not exactly sex-deprived these days. It’s going to take a bit more than some good snogging to get me there.” He reached up, touching his fingertips to Sherlock’s chin. “Are you up to the task?”

Sherlock’s expression immediately brightened. “Is that a challenge, doctor?”

Before John could retort, Sherlock’s cool fingers were wrapped around his prick. John bit his lip, grinning. Sherlock set aside the lube and shifted down on the bed. He pulled back the foreskin and rubbed his thumb over the slit. John groaned, pushing up into the hand. “Yes, definitely aroused.” When he felt Sherlock’s breath tickling his skin he looked down at the mess of curls. He wetted his lips and said, “Have you ever done this before?”

“John,” Sherlock sighed over his prick, to which John swallowed hard. Sherlock looked up. The sight of Sherlock’s face by his prick, one gorgeous hand wrapped around it, was definitely helping his arousal. “I did say I’ve had intercourse with another man before.”

“There’s a difference between sticking your prick into someone else’s arse and sticking someone else’s prick in your mouth.” John grinned and added cheekily, “Let me know if you need any direction.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and proceeded to swallow John’s cock.

“Oh god,” John moaned, a shudder rippling through his entire body.

It was quickly evident that Sherlock did not need any direction whatsoever. He hollowed his cheeks and then pulled back. He replaced his mouth with his hand around the shaft, focusing his lips and tongue on the head.

John thrust his hands into Sherlock’s hair, digging his nails into the scalp in a tremendous effort of not shoving Sherlock further onto his growing erection. Finally, trembling and squirming, he managed to gasp, “Stop. Sherlock, stop!”

Sherlock reacted immediately, pulling off with just enough suction to illicit a whimper from John. “I’m sorry.”

John blinked rapidly, trying to regain some cognitive function as he worked his fingers free of Sherlock’s curls. “Sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“You told me to stop.” Sherlock frowned, sitting up between John’s thighs. “I assume I was doing something wrong, or discomforting.”

John let out a breathy laugh. “No. God, no. That was- you were brilliant. That’s why I told you to stop.” He met Sherlock’s gaze and gave him a toothy grin. “I don’t want to come yet.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, face flush and hair mussed.

John sat up and wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. He pulled him into a heady kiss, enjoying the mingled taste of Sherlock and himself.

Sherlock’s eyes slid shut, but John kept his own open, watching the pleasant creases of Sherlock’s skin as he invaded his mouth. When he pulled away, he rubbed his thumb across Sherlock’s wet, swollen lips, pressing his thumb to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock pulled it in, biting lightly and sucking.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

Sherlock looked down from under heavily lidded eyes, still toying with John’s thumb in his mouth.

John pressed their foreheads together. “I love you. So much.”

Sherlock released his thumb and kissed the tip of John’s nose. “The sentiment is mutual.”

“Better be,” John muttered through a smile. He lowered himself back down, bent his knees up, and spread his thighs. He watched, amused, as Sherlock forcibly kept himself from gawking.

Sherlock retrieved the bottle of lube and popped the cap. He stared at it for a moment before looking at John. “Early.”

“Hm?”

“You said ‘only you.’”

“I meant it.”

“You’ve never been penetrated before?”

John shook his head. “Nothing more than a finger. So yes, my backside would appreciate a generous use of lube.”

Sherlock nodded and squeezed the bottle over his fingers. He closed the lid without snapping it shut and kept it in reach. After coating the first two fingers of his right hand, he reached down and slid them down the entire length of John’s perineum before pressing against the opening.

John’s hips rotated up of their own accord. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, and when Sherlock looked up they kept each other’s gaze. They retained eye contact, shallow-breathed, faint smiles, as Sherlock pressed one long, bony finger into John. John gave an almost unconscious nod of encouragement, fingers clenching the duvet under him as Sherlock pushed past the initial resistance.

He managed to hold his eyes open and on Sherlock through the first finger, which was an accomplishment considering just how much Sherlock managed to do with that one finger. John had never felt so open before, and he knew he wasn’t even close to ready for Sherlock’s cock. But he wanted it, physically ached for it as he intermittently pushed himself harder onto Sherlock’s fingers. He wanted to feel more of Sherlock inside of him, of his prick inside of him. He wanted that new sensation, that sensation only Sherlock would ever give him. 

When the second finger went in, John’s hips jerked and he slammed his head into his pillow with a loud moan. Fingers still working inside him, he felt a kiss on the inside of his thigh.

“If I’m hurting you,” Sherlock started to say.

“No,” John panted. “Doesn’t hurt. Just- God!”

And it was true. The stretch was slightly uncomfortable, but that was to be expected, and it was incomparable to the pleasure every sweep across his prostate sent through him.

“If I am, tell me.”

“’Course.”

Finally the two fingers stretched John one last time before sliding out. John lay gasping for air, his entire body shaking, knuckles white around fistfuls of duvet, eyes screwed shut. There was a shift on the mattress, and then Sherlock was leaning over him and pressing kisses to his eyelids.

John forced his breathing to slow and gradually opened his eyes. He unfurled his stiff fingers and wrapped his arms lazily about Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock lowered his head and met the needy kisses eagerly, broken by John’s ragged breathing.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock whispered into John’s parted lips.

John nodded, not trusting his voice.

Sherlock retrieved the condom from the bedside table. John watched him with dark eyes as he rolled it on and slicked himself up. Then he bent John’s legs a little more, spread him a little wider, lined himself up, and pushed.

The sound John made was equal parts guttural and visceral. Sherlock went agonizingly slow, which John would likely be grateful for later. At the moment, though, he wrapped his legs clumsily around Sherlock’s lower back and tried pulling him in faster.

When Sherlock stilled, John opened his eyes in confusion and concern. Sherlock was holding his hips still, watching him carefully. It took John a moment realise that Sherlock was buried into him bollocks-deep.

“How does it feel?” Sherlock’s breath was as shallow as John’s now.

“Christ,” John said. “Brilliant.”

“Does it hurt?”

John shook his head. “No. Well, a bit. But my body’s not used to it, that’s all. It’s hardly anything. You feel amazing. That’s what I feel.”

“So do you.” Sherlock leaned forward slowly, capturing John’s moan in his mouth.

John threw his arms around Sherlock, hugging him close, sandwiching his own cock between their stomachs.

Sherlock moved slowly, rocking his hips back and pushing into John again with care. But soon John was digging his fingers into Sherlock’s back, urging him faster with broken words and sounds and thrusts of his own body.

Although he steadily increased his pace, Sherlock never thrust too hard to the hilt. If John had had any coherent thought left in him, he would have realised how much will power this had to have taken him. At the moment, though, John was holding onto Sherlock with eighteen months’ worth of desperation.

He came with a strangled sort of noise ripping from his throat, clenching his entire body around Sherlock, head pressed back into the pillow. Sherlock rode him through his orgasm and came as the last of John’s began to ebb.

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John’s neck and bit down, hard, right over Mycroft’s mark.

John would’ve held back the cry of surprise and pain had he expected it, but that was, unfortunately, not the case. Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s shoulder and muttered an apology.

“Fine,” John managed. He combed his fingers through Sherlock’s sweat-damped hair. “Startled me, that’s all.”

After Sherlock pulled out, he flopped back down on top of John. “I didn’t intend to do that just now.”

“Bit possessive?” John teased.

Sherlock kissed the bruise. “Protective.” He got up and disposed of the condom before disappearing with some mention of getting a flannel.

John looked down and chuckled at the mess of drying ejaculate on his stomach. He tried to sit up, but his arse immediately protested and he let out a hiss of pain before falling back onto his pillow.

When Sherlock returned, having already cleaned himself up, John held out his hand for the flannel. But Sherlock ignored him and proceeded to clean John off with a methodical reverence. He even wiped away the lube that had smeared onto the back of John’s thighs before setting the flannel aside. He leaned down and kissed the bruise again, then moved up to press a kiss to John’s forehead.

John scooted over in the bed, doing his best not to wince. Now that the heat was gone, he was beginning to pimple from the cold permeating the walls of their flat. He’d forgotten there was a world outside where it was winter.

Sherlock pushed the covers down and then spread them over John, shimmying underneath. John rolled onto his side, which wasn’t too uncomfortable, and they faced one another smiling.

John scooted closer, and Sherlock snaked his arms around him, pulling him in to close the space between them. He rested his chin on John’s head. “Was it Mycroft?”

John’s heart jumped. “Yes. But it was just sex, Sherlock. Purely physical. After you- We both needed something to ground us, that’s all.” He moved his head from under Sherlock and looked up at him. Sherlock met his gaze. “Do you believe me? Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, combing his fingers through John’s hair, trailing his fingers around the back of his ear to bring his palm to rest on John’s cheek. “With my life.” With a half-sincere scowl he added, “It’s my brother I don’t trust.”

John rolled his eyes. “Well, it takes two, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock hummed, obviously pleased with himself.

An old, comfortable silence grew between them, and the post-orgasm torpor began to take hold. “I can hardly believe you’re back,” John murmured against Sherlock’s chest. Before either of them could drift off completely, he rested his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and said, “Just promise me something?”

“Anything and everything.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes with a faint shudder, as if the very thought terrified him. He tightened his arms around John, who in turned pressed closer to him. “Never.”


End file.
